A Hunter and a Consulting Detective Walk Into a Bar
by evergreen451
Summary: Mycroft sends Sherlock and John to America to track down the infamous serial killers Sam and Dean Winchester. But when they meet, complications of a supernatural nature arise and they must work together.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! This is a Sherlock-Supernatural Crossover my friend megtheegg99 are writing together. Hope you enjoy, and please review!**

* * *

"You have sixteen missed calls from Mycroft, Sherlock. Have you listened to any of the messages?" John asked exasperatedly, holding out Sherlock's phone towards him. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, absently plucking the strings of his violin in a disjointed, aimless melody.

"No. Why would I?"

"He could have a case for you," John said, remembering how just a few hours ago Sherlock had been ranting again about how bored he was. There hadn't been any new cases the consulting detective had deemed interesting enough to take, and he had been stalking around the flat like a restless animal, alternating between silence and shouting.

"Don't care," Sherlock said, still staring into space as his long fingers strummed the violin. John sighed and brusquely put the phone down on the table, sitting down in his chair and picking up the newspaper.

It wasn't long before they heard Mrs. Hudson's voice from downstairs, then two pairs of footsteps ascending the stairs. John set down the paper and stood as Mrs. Hudson showed in an impeccably dressed, cold-faced individual clad in a suit and carrying an umbrella.

"Mycroft," John greeted resignedly, glancing over at Sherlock, who was completely ignoring his brother's presence. Mycroft nodded briefly at John before striding over to stand facing Sherlock on the couch.

"Sherlock."

"I'm thinking."

"I don't care."

"Whatever it is, no."

"Sherlock."

"What do you want?"

Mycroft eyed his brother for a moment before settling himself in the chair opposite the couch. He crossed his legs and folded his hands neatly.

"I have an assignment for you."

Sherlock snorted, his watercolor eyes briefly focusing on his brother's face before they resumed roaming around the room aimlessly.

"I don't take assignments. Especially not from you."

"Oh, I think you will."

Sherlock's gaze returned again to Mycroft, sharp and cold. He waited silently for his brother to continue. John coughed awkwardly from where he had been standing, watching the tension between the two brothers.

"Please tell us what the case is, Mycroft," John said quietly, once it became clear neither Holmes was giving ground.

"Two highly wanted criminals, brothers. Wanted for credit card fraud, grave desecration, violent assault, impersonating federal officers, theft, and several cases of brutal murder. They've been detained by law enforcement several times, but every time managed to mysteriously escape."

"Boring," Sherlock said immediately, his gaze dropping from Mycroft back to his violin. John sighed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

"Have you ever heard of the Winchesters?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up.

"They're in America."

"All expenses paid."

"Why?"

"I owed America a favor. This is what they asked."

"I'll do it."

"Thank you," Mycroft allowed, standing up and retreating from the flat. John watched him go, confusion written all over his feature.

"Pack your bags, John!" Sherlock called suddenly. John sputtered indignantly.

"To go where, exactly? And why?"

"We're going to America to track down a pair of vicious serial killers."

"You know, there are better ways to take a vacation."

The two men quietly laughed together.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam glanced over at his soundly sleeping brother, half expecting him to disappear, half expecting this all to be a hallucination. Dean had been dead, buried, in hell for the past four months and had mysteriously returned earlier that day.

Sam laid back on his cheap motel pillows and tried to fall asleep, but couldn't. He was afraid that if he looked away, Dean would be gone, and he would be all alone again. Well, except for Ruby, but she was a demon, even if she had saved his life. And no one could ever replace his brother. No matter what.

He frowned, his mind circling back to the questions that had been plaguing him since Dean showed up at his door with Bobby. How did Dean get out of hell and an eternity of torture? How was he alive and well, and not shredded to pieces as the hellhounds had left him? Where had the handprint on his shoulder come from- a demon or something else? Questions spiraled on an endless loop through Sam's mind as he tried to piece together what had happened, what had brought his brother back. He decided it was no use trying to fall asleep so he turned on his laptop. Once he logged on the computer and it loaded, he opened a new tab. Dean had been on his computer when they got back to the motel room earlier that day so he checked the search history. Sam immediately regretted looking clicking on the recently viewed link as it appeared to be Russian porn. Sam shook his head, not at all surprised at his brother's internet choices. At least he was kind of back to normal after his time down under. Sam exited out of that page and cleared the search history. He then looked up recent newspaper articles on attempt to find their next case.

When Dean woke up half an hour later, Sam had the Impala all packed and their next case ready to go.

"There have been several mysterious, brutal murders of tourists in an abandoned mining ghost town called Seltad near us. There are witnesses who claim is was the work of a ghost."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thank you to our four wonderful reviewers, as well as the followers and favoriters! Sorry for not updating this sooner... please review!**

Riding an airplane overseas next to Sherlock Holmes was an interesting experience, to say the least. John never wanted to experience it again. Ever.

Throughout the nine hour long flight, as John alternately stared out the window, tried to read a book, or researched the notorious Winchesters, Sherlock constantly made deductions out loud about everyone. And he said them rather loudly too.

John learned that the woman opposite was having an affair with a small business owner, the two girl in front of them were flying to the US to get a purebred puppy ('most likely a medium-sized family dog', Sherlock mused), the man behind them had an untreated heart condition, and many more facts about the private lives of everyone around them.

By the end of the flight, John was performing calming breathing exercises to stop himself from strangling his flatmate, Sherlock was repeating 'BORED' loudly between random deductions, and they were the subject of many angry, hateful glares.

When they disembarked in the Denver International Airport, John almost shouted aloud in relief. He didn't talk to Sherlock on the way to the baggage claim or while renting a car and leaving the airport with white fabric mountain-like cones on top of the long, sprawling building. As they passed by a large statue of a rearing blue stallion with flashing red eyes, he turned to his flatmate.

"What the hell was that?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

"What? The horse?"

"The entire thing on the plane! Blurting out everyone's secrets for the whole world to hear!"

"I was merely stating the obvious," Sherlock huffed, his pale eyes turning to look out the window at the rolling plains and the faint snowy mountains beyond.

John almost growled, but stiffly turned back to the road, consulting the page of directions he had printed out based on where the Winchester brothers had last been seen and laid between them.

"Can you read those to me?" He asked Sherlock, not comfortable with looking at them while driving on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road. Sherlock sighed and obliged.

John headed west, towards the mountains.

* * *

Seltad was a tiny western-style town, almost the perfect image of what you would imagine a ghost town to look like- tall wooden buildings with overhanging roofs and porches lining dirt streets, shattered windows and cobwebs, twigs, grass, and other debris blowing down the road. At the end of the single road, ruining the 'lost-in-time' image, was a small, modern inn. Sherlock and John pulled up in front of it and walked in.

A cheerful, potbellied man greeted them from behind a wooden counter/bar.

"Welcome to Seltad, the most well-preserved ghost town in Colorado!

"Thank you. Um, what rooms are available?" John asked, walking up to the counter, Sherlock beside him.

The owner winked knowingly at John, who frowned in confusion.

"We have a lovely master bedroom with a king," the man said.

John blanched and Sherlock sighed wearily.

"No, no, we're not together!" John said fiercely for the thousandth time.

The man held up his hands.

"Easy there- I just thought-"

"Well, you thought wrong!" John snapped. "Two beds, please!"

The man took a step back and kept his hands up in a defensive pose. He grabbed a set of keys for a room containing two twin beds without breaking eye eye contact with John. He handed him the keys, flinching when John abruptly took them. John slapped the payment on to the counter and stormed away, Sherlock following impassively.

When they got into their room, Sherlock was pleased to find that they had wi-fi and proceeded to borrow John's laptop and continue his research on the Winchester brothers, trawling through news articles, videos, photos, and first-person testimonies. They had numerous counts of grave desecration, credit card fraud, and impersonating federal agents, along with one case of bank robbery and hostage holding and enough brutal torture and murder charges to put even Sherlock on edge.

John flopped down on one of the beds, pursing his lips as Sherlock silently tapped away at the keyboard.

"So, what's the plan for tomorrow?" John asked.

"The Winchesters have been spotted very near here. They have a pattern of showing up at the locations of murders and killings, and there have been several here recently. Our best guess of where they'll turn up next is here."

"So we just…wait?"

"And investigate the murders in the meantime. It'll keep me occupied."

"Oh, so they're interesting enough for you?" John snorted.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

* * *

"Oh my god," John gagged.

"Calm down, John. Surely you've seen worse in Afghanistan?" Sherlock said dismissively, pulling on two white gloves crisply.

"Not like- that. Not purposeful," John said, eying the body of one of the tourists. "Yes, I've seen people blown apart by bombs. Not- mutilated like that. What kind of sick bastard-"

"Are you going to help me or not, Dr. Watson?"

John sighed and pulled on a pair of gloves.

Earlier that morning Sherlock had managed to wrangle permission to access the bodies from the police in the occupied town nearest Seltad (who were handling the case), and they had driven there to examine them.

It was a middle aged man, he had dark brown hair and one lifeless brown eye. The other eye had been gouged out by a flat headed object. The neck was still intact, but decorated with small, symmetrical scratches. Sherlock looked further down. Blood was pooled beneath the body, the chest was abnormally wide, as if the ribs were cracked apart. The lungs were pulled out of the gash in his back and placed to either side of his torso. The skin and muscle on the legs were removed, leaving bloodied bones, that were wrapped with tendons. The meat and skin was off to the side, inside the man's open hand. The other arm was broken so many times, that it appeared to have been made of jelly. It flopped at a weird angle that made John cringe. The feet were smashed with a hammer, the toenails smashed into the blood and bones, the shape of the feet almost unrecognizable. The body smelled as if had been dumped into a sewer and left there to stew in the hot sun.

Sherlock examined it emotionlessly as John cringed and gagged, still trying to make medical statements anyway.

"Appeared to have died of the Bloody Eagle, a torture tactic that was a particular favorite of the ancient Norse. It has the most blood loss of all the wounds and the look of pain across his face shows he was killed slowly and painfully."

"So the other wounds were made after death?"

"Apparently."

Sherlock "hmm"ed and poked at the pile of skin and muscle in the man's palm, not appearing to notice the unbearable scent causing everyone else to gag. He pushed the body on it's back to get a better look. Forensics and police argued in disapproval as he meddled with the body and any evidence still on it from the crime scene. They started to charge at Sherlock, intending to get him away from the body and out of the morgue, but John stepped in their path, and calmly explained his eccentric partner's actions. He pointed out that they had already looked at and took pictures of the original crime, and that Sherlock was wearing latex gloves, causing him not to make any fingerprints. The crowd of professionals stepped back reluctantly, not prepared with an argument to counteract John's, and many dispersed from the morgue to go about their usual business.

"I'm done," Sherlock announced, pulling off his bloody gloves and tossing them in a nearby trash can. John sighed in relief and quickly strode out of the morgue, after which Sherlock took the lead. The pair went outside and got into their rental car, heading back to Seltad.


End file.
